Lobster and Crow

Wrist slash red is my least favorite color because it’s only in those moments when I step away, lover, that wrist slashed red appears on the towels and basin, not the color of tomatoes or freshly finished mason gleaming in the mornings when the only ones awake are people working or the miserable; it’s not a time to fake that awful deep red color. At least I never have to see. At least you somehow summon up some decency and shut the door and twitch the faucet, shuffle feet with nervous coughing. Wrist slash red’s mark of defeat, thinking – this isn’t stopping.

Jet jet black is my favorite color because it’s only in those moments when I step away, lover, that the deep deep black appears, symbiotic and organic, saying walk your lonely streets and play your hopelessly romantic cards upon the crystal tables lit with lighters and stale smoke, lift your handle if you’re able, learn to take a fucking joke – because isn’t that what this was? What I had found was myself saying something similar because I couldn’t.